Agree to Disagree
by Emma15
Summary: ... that had to count for something, right? The fact that they hadn't killed each other yet... PostShadows The guys have things to talk about. [Rating due to cursing]
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Supernatural"

**Author's Note**: This is a post-shadow fic that I've been toying with. This is chapter one of two. I really enjoyed "Hell Hounds" and noticed that in the passing reference we get about "Shadows" it seemed the like argument had been hashed out and they'd agreed to disagree.

I meant to show that in this fic. But I... I just have a _thing _with bloody, hurt Dean. :) So yeah, I got that out of the way this chapter and next chapter will deal with the actual discussion.

I hope you enjoy!

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There just weren't any words; there were things to say, but just no words. What could either brother say that would fix this? That would mean anything at all?

So they drove and in the silence Dean swore he could hear the drip of their blood. He could feel his, Sammy's, Dad's... could feel it drying over his hands. The scent of it filled the car.

He knew they couldn't drive forever. He knew they couldn't be silent forever-- but god, what words could he possibly use? What could he possibly say?

He'd told Dad to go.

For one goddamned _brief_ moment he'd had his family back, together.

But he'd told Dad to go; because going would keep Dad alive, because going would make him stronger, because he loved his father so fuckin much that he was willing to let go of his own desires.

And as the dark highway stretched before him he knew he would do it again. He would do it for Sammy.

_You're gonna hafta let me go my own way..._

He'd said, the little shit; and god-dammit... Dean knew it was true.

He will let Sammy go his own way— for the same reasons he'd let his father go... because he loves Sammy, because letting him go will ensure that Sammy live a longer, happier life... and what more could Dean want for the little brother he'd practically raised?

The little brother who was silently bleeding next to him...

"We need to pull over." He said, almost wincing at the sound of his own voice.

Sam nodded, but didn't say anything.

Dean shifted, feeling the warm blood dripping from the gashes on his chest.

But blood he could deal with. With blood he knew what to do. How to stop it from flowing, how to clean it up, how to get it out of upholstery...

Blood he knew.

Words.

Words were something different. Words weren't his thing; words were Sammy's thing…

So why wasn't Sammy using them? He thought suddenly, shooting his brother a quick glance. Sam was usually the one to talk, the one who insisted they _discuss _what had just happened.

A flash of panic washed over him suddenly, "You okay?" he asked, tightening his grip on the steering wheel.

Out loud the question sounded preposterous… of course he wasn't _okay…_.

"I mean… no excessive blood loss or anything?" He added after a beat.

The car remained eerily silent.

"Sam!" There was a touch of panic in Dean's voice now and he glanced at his brother again, slowing the car down.

When the younger man turned to look at him, but didn't respond, Dean pulled the car over.

"Get out of the car." He ordered.

Sam blinked, "What? What for?"

"I'm checkin you over. Are you bleeding?"

"Of course I'm bleeding. So are you! Or did you miss the thing that nearly tore us all to shreds!"

The sharp anger in Sam's voice caught Dean by surprise. He'd assumed his brother was as numb to the whole thing as he was. Assumed that Sam too, was trying to process everything that had just happened—everything this had all meant.

Dean felt numb.

Apparently, Sam did not.

He blinked, "Sam—" he began, but the younger man cut him off.

"Just drive, Dean. Or switch with me and I'll drive… but let's just get the fuck out of Illinois."

Dean stared at him a moment, still surprised at the tone, the anger… his hands automatically reached for the ignition, and with unconscious movements he pulled back onto the road.

For the next two hours, he drove in silence.

The motel they pulled into had a flashing red _vacancy _sign; it wasn't the first one they'd seen— but it was the first one out of Illinois.

"Check us in, I'll park the car." Dean ordered his little brother, his tone cold.

Sam silently obeyed, grabbing his duffel on the way out.

Ten minutes later, the two met outside the motel and Sam handed Dean a key. They entered the room silently, dropping duffel bags, and surveying the area with the cold, professionalism of the hunters they were.

"Do you want the shower first?" Sam asked, roughly.

"No." Dean replied shortly.

For a moment their gazes met— one dark, the other golden— both glassy with anger; neither knowing what to say, what to do about it…

Sam broke the eye contact, searching through his duffel, getting out what he needed and retreating to the bathroom.

Dean had had a good two hours to work himself into a cold fury. Silent hours in which he'd gone over the past day over and over again…

He stared at the closed bathroom door, his hazel eyes glowing. Where the hell did Sam get off being angry? _Sam _was the one who'd fuckin fallen for Meg in the first place?

He snorted in disgust; leave it to little _Sammy _to not know when he was being played by a chick. He winced as he sat down the bed, then scowled—_right, the Davaes and their mementos. _

In his cold fury and indignation at Sam's attitude he'd managed to put the trickling, wetness on his face and on his chest, the itchiness of drying blood, the gashes on Sam's face that would need stitches, out of his mind.

He remembered now.

Carefully, he stood back up and headed back to the car. They'd left the first-aid kit in the car.

Remembering, he realized, sucked; suddenly it all hurt again. His chest, his face, he ribs… he imagined Sam wasn't in much better shape. Dad hadn't been kidding when he'd said they were beat to hell. Not that that was anything new… it was a matter of course lately…

Lately a job wasn't finished unless one or both of them was bleeding.

Lately things had gotten so much harder, so much tenser, so much more complicated…

It was colder outside, now. Darker. The air was thick, harder to breathe in or maybe that was his problem and not the air's...?

Either way he found that he was a little breathless by the time he reached the Impala. Breathless and tired. Very tired—but after today… who wouldn't be?

He slid into the driver's seat and sat back for a moment, catching his breath, before reaching to get the kit.

Battered.

That's what he felt, _battered_— physically, mentally… emotionally.

Seeing his Dad; feeling those arms close in around him, locking him up in complete safety; watching Dad and Sam hug… it had been… a _relief. _The lifting of a burden so heavy he hadn't realized he'd been carrying it until it had suddenly vanished.

Suddenly, he'd been able to _breathe…_

And just as suddenly, it had all been torn away.

His family, together, had been attacked; ravaged, nearly _shredded _to death—talk about symbolism.

A tremor coursed through him catching him by surprise and he wondered how long he'd been out here. It seemed even colder now, darker…

The relief had vanished as abruptly as it had come and the burden had returned. It's weight nearly overwhelming now that he was aware of its existence.

Blinking suddenly heavy-lidded eyes, he tried to sit up and found that apparently he was just too tired to do that right now. He frowned a little, as his eyes slid shut; he hadn't thought he'd lost enough blood to pass out…

The floating sensation that carried him towards darkness begged to differ though and he sighed softly, letting himself get carried away, letting his thoughts drift and fade…

The darkness offered the blessed promise of relief—even if it was temporary, even if it was false…

Shit, he thought abruptly, and perhaps a bit deliriously, had he lost the bartenders phone number?

Sam was angry.

Anger.

It was the only emotion he could clearly identify at the moment. He knew, could _feel_, that there were other things swirled in with that anger, but at the moment anger was the only one he could deal with.

He couldn't deal with watching his father drive away, with feeling the man's arms around him, with **Dean**sending their Dad away…

He hadn't been surprised when he'd exited the bathroom and found the room empty. Dean was pissed too.

He'd sensed that. Dean had worked himself into a fury on the drive here and Sam was grateful, because right now all he really wanted to get **into-it** with someone. He wanted to yell and scream and possible **hit**something or maybe even someone—the "someone" being his brother.

His brother who'd fuckin spilled his guts about wanting their family together and then **_sent their father away._**

Those four words made his blood boil. Dean had told their Dad to leave. It was incomprehensible to him. If he hadn't seen it with his own goddamned eyes he wouldn't have believed it.

Dean had come to him in the first place to find Dad! Because they'd wanted, because _he'd _wanted, to find Dad, Sam had gotten pulled back into this fuckin world and then **_he'd sent him away!_**

He paced the room waiting for his brother to get back from wherever the hell he'd decided to go at this time.

He sighed roughly, wincing as the motion hurt his face—his face. A face that needed to get stitched up and bandaged, he remembered. It had been a gruesome sight in the bathroom mirror. Bloody, jagged gashes running down his cheek; he'd left them mostly alone, just pressed a towel with warm water against them. They'd forgotten the alcohol in the first-aid kit… in the car…

He ran a hand through his hair as he slowed his pacing… he should go get that. Dean had gashes on his face too and god knew the dumb-ass never treated his wounds on his own.

Rolling his eyes, he set out for the car.

He didn't panic when he saw the driver's side door to the Impala open. He didn't panic when he got closer and saw one of his brother's arms hanging, limply outside the car. He didn't panic when he ran over and found his brother unconscious in the car.

The panic came when he checked his brother over realized that Dean was _still _bleeding and bleeding _in his car, _at that.

"Dammit, Dean." He hissed, trying to quell that panic, "What the hell are you doing out here anyway…?"

He felt for his brother's pulse. It was too slow, but steady… for now. He needed to stop the bleeding, but first he needed to get him back to their room. "Dean!" he tried, shaking him a little, "Come on! I need you wake up a little…" he stated, "I can't carry you like this…"

He shook him a little again, "Dean! Come on, man, I need your help!"

His brother moaned a little, "… lost it…" he muttered, "… number…"

Sam frowned, "Dude, wake up… come on…"

Bleary, hazel eyes flickered open, "…Sammy…?"

Had Sam not been feeling the tendrils of his previous anger still lurking around his system, he would have labeled what he felt at hearing that voice and seeing those eyes as relief, but he was still feeling them. So he gave the emotion a passing regard before squelching it.

"It's Sam," he muttered, as he slipped his arms around his brother's torso, "We need to get you back to the room…"

Dean nodded vaguely, his eyes sliding shut again.

"Stay awake!" Sam snapped, then winced with shame when Dean jerked in his hold, causing him to gasp in pain. Heavy-lidded hazel, eyes stared out into space.

"You're heavy when you're unconscious…" Sam added more gently, adjusting his hold.

Dean didn't say anything—the lack of reaction bothered Sam.

Carefully, he hauled his brother out of the car. Straightening slowly and backhanding the car door shut.

Dean was nearly unconscious again by the time they reached their room. Gasping for breath, sweating, bleeding…

Sam's panic was coming back. "Okay… just…" he said, as he slowly led Dean to one of the beds, "… sit here okay… I'll be right back…" he murmured as he lowered Dean onto a bed.

Again no reaction, not even a vague nod. Sam stared at him a moment, the panic building before he turned around and ran back to the car. He returned less than a minute later—Dean hadn't moved.

He set the first aid kit on the bed. Then carefully, began removing Dean's shirt, aware that glassy, golden eyes followed his every move.

He gasped, when his brother's chest was exposed. Three perfect, and deep, claw marks ran along the older man's torso. The skin around them raised and red, all of them still slowly, oozing blood.

His dark eyes shot up to meet Dean's, "Why the hell didn't you say something!" he cried, the accusation in his voice doing nothing hide the sudden spike of panic that risen up in him.

Dean frowned a little, as if he didn't understand.

Sam scowled, "Lay down." He ordered, but even as he said the words he gently helped his brother slide down in the bed.

Dean grimaced, but didn't make a sound, his gaze still hazy.

Sam got up and pulled a chair over; he rummaged through the kit and pulled out a few supplies, with a grimace of his own, he wet a cotton swab with alcohol and before giving either of them the chance to think, pressed it against one of the gashes.

"FUCK SAMMY!" Dean yelled, suddenly wide awake, as he jerked under his brother's touch.

Sam's hand remained firm and he used the other to grip his brother's arm, reminding him to hold still.

"GET OFF!" Dean cried, reigning in every instinct that cried for him to jam his fist into his brother's face.

"You know it has to be done."

The older man clenched his jaw in silence, knowing that Sam was right.

A moment later Sam lifted the swab, tossed it aside and wet another one. Before pressing it down, he brought his brown eyes to meet Dean's— he was still pissed at his older brother—_really _pissed actually, but…

… he wished he didn't have to do this. He didn't like to see Dean in pain…

"Just do it." Dean commanded, reading the reluctance in Sam's gaze. He turned his head away.

Sam nodded, swallowed hard, and pressed the swab to the second gash.

Dean's reaction was more restrained this time since he was expecting it. He clenched his fists and closed his eyes, his mouth clamped shut as he struggled not to scream. Instinctively though, he still jerked against Sam's hold.

A few seconds later, Sam stopped swabbing and tossed the material aside. "Last one," He murmured, as he prepared the next swab.

Dean nodded, pale and breathing hard, the effort not to scream exhausting him even more, "Yeah… then the… real fun… can start…" he murmured, "… stitches?" he asked.

Sam studied his brother's chest critically for a moment, "The last one I think… the other two, maybe not."

Dean nodded; his eyes were sliding shut again.

"Last one," Sam repeated, his mouth drawn into a tight line.

Dean's self restraint cracked on this one and he screamed, banging on the bed with the arm Sam wasn't holding down, "ENOUGH! STOP!"

"Just let me get all of it, Dean…" Sam whispered his throat tight. Shit. He hated this. He hated hurting Dean. How the hell was he supposed to be mad at his brother after he'd done _this _to him?

"Okay, alright…" he whispered a few seconds later, lifting the swab and tossing it aside.

Dean's body instantly went limp on the mattress and his eyes fluttered shut, "Shit, Sammy…" He panted, "… shit."

Sam nodded, agreeing wholeheartedly with the sentiment.

"Good news though," Sam stated, studying the gashes.

"Hmmm?" Dean murmured, tilting his head towards Sam a bit, but not opening his eyes.

"Without the blood covering it, it looks the last one doesn't need stitches after all."

Dean swallowed hard, "Good," he murmured, his voice was hoarse and rather faint.

Sam sighed, digging through the first aid kit, "Don't fall asleep yet we're not done."

Dean's eyes flickered open, "You're enjoying this aren't you." He muttered accusingly.

Sam smirked a little, "Well there was that time you made me train with the flu." He reminded his brother as he started bandaging the gashes.

Dean snorted, "You—were—so faking." He gasped, as Sam pressed the first bandage into place.

"Was not—I had a fever."

"Only— a little— one."

"I was coughing."

"Only sometimes."

"We trained for an entire hour." Sam persisted as he worked on the second one.

Dean swallowed hard, the world shifting a little and his eyes closing of their own accord.

"Stay with me, bro." Sam urged, his voice sounding far away, "I need you to sit up… did you hit your head or anything?" he asked, suddenly worried all over again.

Dean drew in a shuddering breath, but didn't respond.

"Dean!"

Squinting a little, Dean opened his eyes a bit.

"Did you hit your head?" Sam asked.

"… no…"

"Are you sure?" Sam asked, turning away from him and looking through the kit again.

Dean nodded a little, "Yeah," he whispered.

Suddenly, Sam shined a light into his eyes, "Aw, fuck Sammy!" he growled, turning away and bringing his arm up to shield his face, "What the hell!"

Sam shrugged, "Good your pupils contracted," he reached out and grasped his brother's chin, turning him back towards him, "Look at me."

Dean grunted and opened his eyes, blinking at his brother, "… personal space… dude…" he muttered, scowling a little.

Sam pulled back, releasing his brother, "They're even too."

Dean turned his head to the side, closing his eyes—he was so tired, "I told you…"

Sam shrugged, "Yeah, well…" he muttered, as he slipped an arm underneath Dean and lifted, "… you're a dumb-ass so I had to check anyway." He said simply, "Here take these… they'll help with the pain."

Dean frowned, "I'm not… a dumb-ass…" he murmured, with a lot less heat than he would usually use to respond to such a comment. Sam brought a glass of water to his lips when he'd put the pills in his mouth.

The water felt so good… he hadn't realized he was so thirsty.

"Careful, slow down…" Sam murmured. When the glass was empty Sam set it aside and gently laid Dean back down. Dean's eyes slid shut almost immediately.

Sam quickly moistened a few small swabs and began dabbing at the slash marks on Dean's face, remembering that he had to do the same to his own.

Dean tried to turn his face away, "… stings…" he whimpered.

"I know," Sam said softly, reaching out and holding his brother's face steady, aware that Dean was more than half asleep.

"… not a dumb-ass…" Dean added, sleepily, his eyes fluttering open.

Sam scowled, remembering… "Yeah, you really are a dumb-ass…"

Dean too scowled, or tried to; it was hard to tell when everything around you seemed almost surreal, "Shut-up." He murmured.

"You couldn't have told me you were this hurt?" Sam stated, finishing up with his brother's face and tossing the swabs aside.

"… I could've…" Dean murmured, his eyes were closing again, his breathing already beginning to even out.

"Not only that… but…" Sam knew now was not the time to bring it up, hell his brother was nearly passed out from blood loss, but—really… it had to be said, _he _had to say it, "… you told Dad to go… dammit Dean, you told him to go…!"

"… yeah…"

The simple answer ignited Sam's temper, "Why!" he roared.

Dean frowned lightly, his eyes closed, his mind more asleep than awake, "… it's what you do… when you… care… if they hafta go… you let go…"

The words slurred together and a moment later Dean was deeply asleep.

Sam stared at him. _Glared _at him, to be exact; with barely contained violence he stood up and began rapidly pacing the room again.

Dean had let go because he cared about their Dad—fine. But Sam cared too, about their Dad, about Dean, about this fuckin battle that just would _end._ It had been a mistake to let their father leave. They had to find this _thing. _And they were close, closer than ever—close to ending it. All of it.

Dean said it would never end; there would always be something to hunt…

But it could—_their _hunt could end.

It was mistake to let their father go when they were so close, he was sure of that. Together they could end this sooner, work faster, be stronger…

His gaze trailed back to his sleeping brother—or they could put their father in danger, watch him be killed, know that it was their fault…

He sighed, feeling the anger drain again… this time taking the panic with it. The adrenaline too was gone… and suddenly he just felt… _tired._

Today had just been… _too much._ They'd come so close and now… they were so far.

They were at the beginning again.

Dean stirred suddenly, interrupting his thoughts, and Sam quickly made his way over to the bed. Dean tossed his head a little, muttering, then suddenly his body tensed and his eyes shot open, he fastened a glazed, sightless gaze onto the ceiling while he gasped for breath.

Sam sat on the edge of the bed and placed a hand on the side of Dean's face, "Shhh, you're okay," he murmured, "Relax…"

It took another moment, but slowly the hazel eyes slide shut and Dean relaxed into the bed. A moment later his breathing evened out again.

Sam dropped his hand and studied his brother's pale features—the slashes a ghastly contrast. It could have been worse, he thought. It all could have been so much worse.

And now…

Now they were at the beginning again. He sighed softly, changing hisposition on the bed so he could lean back against the headboard.

They were back at the beginning.

At least they were still together, he thought suddenly, _that_ had to count for something, right? The fact that they hadn't killed each other yet…

He smirked a little, yeah… that _definitely _counted for something. His gaze dropped down to Dean again and he rested his hand in his brother's hair, "You are so _such _a dumb-ass," He murmured, fondly.

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**_Please Review!_**

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	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Supernatural

**Author's Note**: I hope you all enjoy this chapter! This chapter continues on the presumption that Meg never uttered that line about the Davae's actually being _in _the room and only their shadows being visible... since well that just... doesn't work for me since the Winchester's beat them by using _light._

So for this chapter just presume that the Davae's are actually shadows. ;-)

Thank you so much for all the reviews :-)

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The silence had returned. 

Dean stared at his brother from the corner of his eyes, pretending to be wholly absorbed with the bowl of cereal Sam had clunked down in front of him two minutes ago.

Sam, he saw, was pretending to be wholly absorbed in cleaning the guns. The methodical sounds of the job doing nothing to soothe either of them the way it usually did.

He'd awoken to the sound; which meant that Sam had cleaned each piece at least twice by now. His chest throbbed, his face stung, and his muscles were sore—getting out of bed had been a bitch. He'd done it slowly, carefully, and without shooting Sam a glance.

His brother had asked how he'd felt. Dean had said okay. And that had been the sum total of their conversation today.

In the bathroom he'd found that Sam had done a pretty good job of cleaning and bandaging his chest. The warm water had helped eased the throbbing a little and he sighed with relief when he saw the scratches on his face already healing—no permanent damage.

Not that he'd been worried; Fate would never do that to woman-kind.

When he'd re-entered the room Sam had been sitting exactly _where_ and doing exactly _what_ he'd been doing when Dean had gone in. His face expressionless and the tight line of his mouth clearly stating that he was still upset.

Dean had rolled his eyes and maneuvered his way over to the table—he wasn't in the mood to deal with his baby brother's PMS.

He'd sat down carefully, not wanting to move anymore than necessary, placed his arms on the table, and lowered his head onto them—willing his head to stop hurting.

The bowl of cereal plopping down in front of him had been a surprise. He'd stared at it, wondered when and where Sam had gotten it… then started eating.

The silence was stretching. Heavy and uncomfortable and Dean sighed softly, knowing that he had to break it— because he's the big brother and it's his job to _try._

Slowly, he drew in a deep breath and set the spoon down on the bowl's rim, shifting a little in the chair so he was facing on the bed, "… about last night…" he began, then cringed a little.

He'd meant to start off by thanking his brother for patching him up, something nice and generic, but the words _last night _were just… they were too _wide_, they encompassed so much more…

Last night—had been long.

A very long night, indeed.

Sam's head shot up, his dark eyes fastening on Dean, waiting, angry, "Right, Dean," he hissed, "… last night."

"Sam—"

"What the hell **_was_** thatlast night!" his brother snapped, setting down the pistol he'd been cleaning, dark eyes boring into Dean.

… little brother was **_pissed_**,Dean thought, ruefully. He'd been pissed last night too. Hell, last night Dean had been a little upset himself…

"Sam," he began again, "You have to understand…"

"Goddammit Dean! What the hell were smoking yesterday! You let Dad GO! You TOLD him to go! And then, you decide it would be fun to pass out from BLOOD LOSS!"

Dean scowled, "I didn't think it would _fun." _

"You didn't THINK." Sam roared, coming to his feet. He stood between the beds glaring at Dean angrily.

And Dean had to bite his cheek to keep back the retort that rose to his lips— Sam was an ass when he was upset about something, Dean knew that, it was a trait his little brother had inherited from their Dad—neither knew how to just _let it go. _They hammered away at something until the old saying "beating a dead horse" seemed like an understatement.

It was irritating in Dad; it was damn frustrating in Sam.

But, he was the older brother, he couldn't let Sam get to him—he had to _try. _

"Dad's in danger when he's with us, Sam." He grit out, forcing himself to unclench his fist; the throbbing sensation in his chest intensifying with the tensing of his muscles.

His brother suddenly looked a lot like a betrayed child, "How _could_ you, Dean?" the younger man accused, angrily, "How **could** you? All that time looking for him… and now… what the hell were you thinking?"

Dean's eyes flashed and his hands clenched again. He wasn't going to get pissed at Sammy. Sammy had patched him up last night. Sammy had given him cereal this morning. Sammy wasn't used to not getting what he wanted…

"He's vulnerable when he's with us," Dean explained, with exaggerated patience "… more open to the supernatural."

"We can handle it." Sam hissed.

Sammy was also irrational when he was pissed, Dean thought, drawing in another deep breath. "We're liabilities he can't afford right now." The older man enunciated, his gaze warning Sam to back off.

Sam shook his head, "We can watch his back—"

"Against a fuckin _SHADOW_, Sam!" Dean growled, jumping to his feet, as well.

An instant later he was doubled over, gasping for breath, his body protesting _loudly _against the sudden movement.

"Dammit," he growled still bent over, trying to draw in a breath as he leaned back against the table, pressing one arm against the gashes that were suddenly burning like hell.

Sam's hand was on his shoulder a moment a later and he knew if he looked up, he would find regretful, brown eyes fastened on him worriedly.

So instead he jerked his shoulder away from Sam's touch, and hissed, "Back off."

The only thing worse than an irrational, pissed off Sam was a broody, guilty Sammy.

Sam scowled at his older brother, opening his mouth to tell the big idiot to sit down before he fell down, when a sudden realization washed over him and had him snapping his mouth shut instead; telling Dean to sit down was the best way to ensure that Dean walk around the room—twice.

So instead he did as Dean asked and dropped his hand, but he didn't move away. He studied his brother's bent figure. Dean was still gasping for air, his eyes closed, his brow furrowed and his body rigid as he waited for the spasms of pain to ebb away.

Sam felt a little bit like a jackass for provoking this, but dammit he was _upset. _

The seconds ticked by and Dean didn't move, didn't open his eyes, didn't say anything… Sam was just about to break his own resolve and _ask _Dean to _please _sit down, when the older man began to straighten—slowly, even though he remained leaning back on the table.

Dean shot Sam a scalding, angry glare, "How the hell do you want to fight something you can't _see?"_

Why Sam had thought Dean would reference the pain he was in, Sam didn't know. Acknowledging pain wasn't in Dean Winchester's genetic make-up—he didn't think.

He didn't press the issue though. Didn't press, even though he knew he should. Dean was hurt; one half night of sleep didn't make all the blood he'd lost last night a non-issue. And it certainly didn't heal those slashes across his brother's torso—he knew that.

But the truth was— if Dean wanted to jump right back into the argument Sam was angry enough to oblige him without a fuss.

"We fought it last night." He stated, pushing his brother's injuries out his mind.

Dean for his part glared at his baby brother and wondered how many common sense brain cells going to college killed.

He drew in what he hoped would be a calming breath, "We got lucky last night. You know that."

"We could work at it, do the research… be prepared…"

The deep breath didn't work.

"Against a _shadow!"_ He yelled, ignoring the pounding that was going on in his head.

Sam's tenuous hold on calmness slipped, "It's what we **do **isn't it?" he roared back, "We know light is its weakness, we can use that, find a way to destroy it—"

"And _what?"_ Dean interrupted viciously, "— in the process get Dad killed!"

"That won't happen! We're stronger together!"

"It's not **about** strength!" Dean hissed, pushing himself away from the table and slashing his hand downward in an angry, frustrated movement, "Damn it Sam! You know this shit! It doesn't matter how strong we are! All they need is one goddamn opening!"

"So we won't give it to them!"

"We _are _the opening!"

Sam's eyes flashed, "We—"

Dean stood rigidly in front of his brother, his gaze as furious as Sam's, "Or weren't you fuckin paying attention yesterday! It was a **_trap!_** We _led_ Dad into a trap! He came because we _called him!" _

Sam shook his head, ignoring the tiny voice that warned this was not the time to get into this, that Dean was hurt… "But we got out!" he insisted, "It couldn't take the three of us, Dean! We won."

Dean would've rolled his eyes, if he didn't feel like his head were about to explode, instead he settled for a disbelieving snort, "No, Sam, we survived," he corrected, then for good measure and because his chest was a constant, throbbing reminder he added a short, "_Barely_."

Sam wasn't letting it go though, "We could've gotten better at it, at fighting it!" he yelled, his fists clenched, his mind replaying those events, "All we needed was time! Together we could've done it! We still can… we can figure out how to outsmart it, how to kill it…"

Dean narrowed his eyes; he was fuckin _sick _of this conversation, "It's too dangerous!" He roared, wanting to **end **this _now._

"We could do it!" Sam hissed back, insistent, determined, belligerent…

"It's too risky!"

"How the hell else are we ever gonna end this!"

The words echoed around the motel room like none of the others had—ringing with the _point, _the crutch of the issue; slamming into Dean with the same force the Daevas had used to knock him down.

He didn't have a comeback for that one. _Couldn't _have a comeback for that one; not after the little conversation he and Sam had had in the motel room yesterday. He knew how Sam felt. Sam wanted to end this so he could be a _real person _again. So he could go back to what was "normal."

Dean couldn't stop it, he flinched, "Don't worry, Sam," he heard himself saying, his voice a little more breathless than he'd like, but still firm. He held his brother's gaze steadily, because he'd be damned if he had another fuckin emotional breakdown in front of Sammy, "Dad will kill it and then you can go."

Sam swallowed hard, paling a little as the memory of the things he'd said rushed up to meet him, "Dean—" he whispered, feeling a bit sick suddenly.

"Of course, he's gotta— you know, be _alive _for that though— which is why— I told him to leave." Dean clarified unnecessarily, purposefully cutting Sam off before his little brother could start spouting a myriad of platitudes in an attempt to make things better, when really nothing would change.

Nothing had changed since Sam had been fifteen and asked his older brother the two questions that would forever stand between them— _don't you sometimes want **more **than all of this? Don't you ever want a **real **life?_

The two brothers had never been able to agree on the answers to those questions—apparently they still couldn't.

He drew in a ragged breath now, wincing as his chest protested.

Sam blinked, taking a step back, noticing his brother's labored breathing and clenched fists; and feeling like a jackass again.

Dean was hurt.

"You need to sit down," he whispered, the words out before he could stop them. He cringed as soon as he heard them, saw Dean stiffen and knew that he had just started another battle.

"I'm fine." Dean snapped back automatically, even though the world had begun to spin and the distance to the chair seemed farther than he remembered.

Sam watched the very careful way Dean turned back to the chair, one arm wrapped around his middle, the other steadying himself against the table.

Without a word Sam shifted the chair so Dean could just lower himself into it without having to walk to it.

He watched as Dean slowly lowered himself into it. Swallowed hard, when Dean didn't say anything and just shifted himself towards the table, rested his arms on it, and lowered his head onto his arms. Effectively, shielding his face from Sam's view.

Sam sat down across from his brother and fastened his eyes on him; tracking the rhythm of Dean's breathing and leaning his elbows on the table. Was the argument was over? It didn't really _feel _like it, but… Dean was hurt. Hurt enough to not comment when Sam had moved the chair for him, hurt enough to stop arguing even though the argument wasn't over, hurt enough that Sam could actually _see_ him working at controlling the pain.

The silence stretched. Wrapping them both in uncomfortable arms and whispering words that haunted them both…

Sam cleared his throat, "You uh, you didn't finish your cereal." He stated quietly, wracking his brain for something, _anything _neutral to say. Which was especially hard, since he wasn't feeling particularly neutral.

Dean remained silent.

Sam drew in a long breath, "It's all… soggy now. You hate when it gets soggy. Do you… do you want me to get you some more? We have more. I didn't even have any. I had a banana. I didn't bring you one, because well… you and fruit don't mix all that well, but maybe you should eat some fruit. I think fruit will help you heal. I'm not sure though, but I could look it up and—"

Dean's groan cut him off and Sam paled a little, inching forward on the chair. His gaze worried and his heart beating a little faster; tentatively he reached out to lay his hand on Dean's arm, but pulled back—hesitating, not wanting to upset his brother, settling instead for laying his palm on the table, "You should lie down," he whispered after a few seconds, "It would ease the strain on your midsection. You're straining the area by leaning over like that, if you're lying down…"

Another low moan caught Sam by surprise and slammed his heart into his rib cage, instinctively he lifted his hand on the table and laid it on top of his brother's head, "Dean?" he whispered, his throat tightening.

His older brother moved his head quickly and swatted at Sam's hand, lifted his head enough to shoot a baleful golden glare at Sam, "I'm not groaning 'cause it hurts. I'm groaning 'cause I've got such a doofus for a little brother," He explained, before promptly lowering his head back to his arm.

Sam stared at him in surprise for a moment, the scowled, "I am not a doofus." He hissed.

"Are too." Dean replied, his voice muffled by his arm.

"At least I'm not a dumb-ass."

Dean lifted his head again, "What?" he asked, his tone low and almost, but not quite a growl.

"Lie down." Sam hissed, "Take a pain killer. Go to sleep… its called taking it easy the day after you collapse from blood loss—which by the way, was a STUPID thing to do."

"It's not like I did it on purpose!" Dean stated, his voice a bit more petulant than he'd intended it to be.

Sam rolled his eyes, "You knew you were bleeding. Why didn't you say anything?"

"I don't know Sam. Could it have had anything to do with the warm and friendly atmosphere your _rage _created in the car?"

"I'm not going to apologize for being pissed! I have a right to be pissed! We've spent over half the fuckin year looking for Dad! And you told him to **_go!"_**

"Yah, 'cause I'd like to keep all the members of this family _alive_."

"We should have stayed together."

Dean scowled, "Why, Sam? Because _you_ wanted us to? Because it suited what _you_ wanted to do?"

Sam knew immediately where Dean was going with that and balked, "It's not the same thing," he argued, his eyes flashing.

Dean didn't reply. He just met Sam's gaze.

Sam who had always been the one to pull away, the one demanding to be released…

…never the one forced to release, to let go…

—not until last night—the urge to rub his little brother's nose in it was strong. To point out how _hard _it was to be the one left behind…

… but he wouldn't do that. He didn't have to. Sam was smart. He could figure it out. And anyway, Dean was too tired to have that argument, to make that point…

He sighed softly, dropping his gaze, lowering his head back to his arm. Quelling the irrational anger and grief that was rising up inside of him…

He'd done what was necessary—he always did, why couldn't Sam understand that? Why did he always have to make every thing so _hard?_

"Dean…?" Sam's voice was soft again and seemed to come from far away. He felt a hand in his hair, smoothing it gently.

A shudder washed over him, surprising them both.

"You need to lie down, now." Sam stated, standing. His mouth suddenly dry and his heart pounding a little faster, "Come on Dean, sit up for a second…" he asked, squatting down next to Dean chair.

Dean lifted his head slowly and turned it to face Sam, "Dude, what's with the Mr.-Roger's-Voice?" He asked, frowning a little when his words slurred together.

Sam smirked a little, reaching out and gently lifting Dean's arm from the table, "I'm trying to be _nice _to you…" he stated, settling his brother's arm across his shoulders.

"I'm fine." Dean insisted, even as Sam began standing and pulling Dean up with him.

The older hissed, as he straightened, "Fuck," he whispered, pain slicing through him.

"Yeah," Sam snorted, "… you're _fine…"_

"Shut-up." Dean hissed, "And let go… dude, I can walk…" he added, pulling away and swatting at Sam's hands. Sam reluctantly let go and watched as Dean bent at the waist a little, holding an arm over his ribs and very slowly taking one step after another.

He scowled, why couldn't Dean just accept help? Why did he always have to make everything so _hard? _"Don't fall," he hissed, anger and worry making his voice sharp, "I'm not in the mood to clean up any more blood."

Dean chuckled softly and even from behind Sam saw him wince, "What happened to _nice?"_

"Same thing that happened to being _fine." _Sam spit back, watching as Dean finally made it to the bed.

When his brother had sat down, Sam went to the dresser where he'd put the first-aid kit last night and started rummaging through it.

"I'll lie down, but I'm not taking any of that crap so don't bother finding it." Dean growled from across the room.

Sam found the pill bottle, emptied three small pills into his hand and then headed for the kitchenette.

"I mean it Sam." Dean added.

Sam opened the faucet and filled a glass with water. Then he walked over and sat across from Dean on the other bed.

Dean scowled, "Those better be for you."

"You're in pain." Sam stated.

"I hate that crap, it makes me groggy."

"It won't make you groggy if you go to sleep." Sam stated rationally, extending his hand.

Dean stared at his brother's hand for a long moment, then looked up and met Sam's gaze, "No."

"Dean you need to sleep… to rest."

The older man shook his head, "No."

Sam's eyes flashed angrily, "Could you just **do **it, Dean."

"I'm fine. I'll lie down—that's resting. You need to chill." Dean said it slowly, haltingly as he lifted his legs onto the bed and rested back against the headboard.

Sam exhaled loudly, "You're such a fuckin dumb-ass!"

"Could you **stop **calling me that!"

"Can you stop acting like one!"

"Can you stop acting like a jackass!"

"Can you take the **fuckin **pills before I **cram **them down your throat!"

"**NO." **

"**Ugh!"** Sam roared, slamming the glass down on the nightstand with enough force to slosh water over the rim and bolting off the bed. Without a word he began pacing; rapid, frustrated pacing that made Dean's eyes widen.

From the bed, Dean watched, his breathing labored and his body tense.

The seconds ticked by, once again the silence stretched. Slowly Dean let his body relax against the headboard again. He un-fisted his hands and unclenched and his jaw and focused solely on his baby brother—who was trying to wear a hold in the cheap, motel carpet.

Minutes slipped by and finally Sam's pacing slowed a little. He stopped suddenly and pinned a dark, steady gaze on Dean, "It was a mistake. We shouldn't have let him go."

Dean met the gaze with a steady hazel one of his own, "No, it wasn't."

There's nothing more to say.

The gazes hold for long moments, before Dean remembered that he's the oldest so he has to try.

"Drop it and I'll take the pills," he stated quietly, his gaze still holding Sam's.

Another long moment passed before Sam looked away, and then moved back to the bed. He sat down again and extended his hand to Dean.

With a soft sigh Dean took the pills and reached for the now half full glass on the nightstand.

Sam eyed him as he swallowed them.

Dean frowned, "Dude, I'm not gonna hide them under my tongue or anything… _blink."_

Sam released a long breath, "Shut-up, Dean."

Dean rolled his eyes, "I'm telling you, you gotta chill…" he murmured, as he slid down on the bed and let his head rest on a pillow.

"Shut-up, Dean."

"You're gonna get some high-blood-pressure disease or something." He added, a small sigh escaping him as his body relaxed completely. He wouldn't admit it—but it felt good to lie down.

Sam smirked a little, turning back to the array of weapons that was still displayed on his bed. Carefully he stated gathering them up. They were all clean, he thought wryly, _super _clean. He'd only been cleaning since half an hour before dawn…

The room was quiet as he picked everything up and put it away. He collected the bowl of cereal and the glass of water…

He nearly jumped out of his skin when Dean said causally, _hey Sam?_

Which caused the older man to chuckle delightedly and open one eye. Before letting it slide shut and shifting on the bed a little.

"What?" Sam asked, a little put-out, but still coming closer.

He sat on Dean's bed this time, but the older man didn't open his eyes, just continued to speak, a small smile playing on his lips, "So if I'm a dumb-ass and you're a jack-ass… we're still related right?"

The silence stretched.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was serious.

Dean opened his eyes slowly, blinking a little as he focused, his brother was smiling a little, "What?" he asked sleepily.

Sam reached out and patted him on the cheek affectionatly, "Just shut-up." He whispered.

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